The Assassin's Blade by Sarah J. Maas

She dared another look at Ilias, who was laughing silently at something one of his companions had said. It was flattering that he even considered her worthy of second thought; she’d avoided looking in the mirror in the month since that night with Arobynn, only checking to ensure nothing was broken or out of place.

“So,” Mikhail said, shattering her thoughts as he pointed a fork at her, “when your master beat the living daylights out of you, did you actually deserve it?”

Ansel shot him a dark look, and Celaena straightened. Even Ilias was now listening, his lovely eyes fixed on her face. But Celaena stared right at Mikhail. “I suppose it depends on who is telling the story.”

Ansel chuckled.

“If Arobynn Hamel is telling the story, then yes, I suppose I did deserve it. I cost him a good deal of money—a kingdom’s worth of riches, probably. I was disobedient and disrespectful, and completely remorseless about what I did.”

She didn’t break her stare, and Mikhail’s smile faltered.

“But if the two hundred slaves that I freed are telling the story, then no, I suppose I didn’t deserve it.”

None of them were smiling anymore. “Holy gods,” Ansel whispered. True silence fell over their table for a few heartbeats.

Celaena resumed eating. She didn’t feel like talking to them after that.



Under the shade of the date trees that separated the oasis from the sand, Celaena stared out at the expanse of desert stretching before them. “Say that again,” she said flatly to Ansel. After the hushed dinner last night and the utterly silent fortress walkways that had brought them here, speaking normally grated on her ears.

But Ansel, who was wearing a white tunic and pants, and boots wrapped in camel pelts, just grinned and fastened her white scarf around her red hair. “It’s a three-mile run to the next oasis.” Ansel handed Celaena the two wooden buckets she’d brought with her. “These are for you.”

Celaena raised her brows. “I thought I was going to be training with the Master.”

“Oh, no. Not today,” Ansel said, picking up two buckets of her own. “When he said ‘training’ he meant this. You might be able to wallop four of our men, but you still smell like the northern wind. Once you start reeking like the Red Desert, then he’ll bother to train you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Where is he?” She looked toward the fortress towering behind them.

“Oh, you won’t find him. Not until you prove yourself. Show that you’re willing to leave behind all that you know and all that you were. Make him think you’re worth his time. Then he’ll train you. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.” Ansel’s mahogany eyes gleamed with amusement. “Do you know how many of us have begged and groveled to just have one lesson with him? He picks and chooses as he sees fit. One morning, he might approach an acolyte. The next, it might be someone like Mikhail. I’m still waiting for my turn. I don’t think even Ilias knows the method behind his father’s decisions.”

This wasn’t at all what Celaena had planned. “But I need him to write me a letter of approval. I need him to train me. I’m here so he can train me—”

Ansel shrugged. “So are we all. If I were you, though, I’d suggest training with me until he decides that you’re worth it. If anything, I can get you into the rhythm of things. Make it seem more like you care about us, and less like you’re here just for that letter of approval. Not that we all don’t have our own secret agenda.” Ansel winked, and Celaena frowned. Panicking now wouldn’t do her any good. She needed time to come up with a logical plan of action. She’d try to speak to the Master later. Perhaps he hadn’t understood her yesterday. But for now … she’d tag along after Ansel for the day. The Master had been at dinner the night before; if she needed to, she could corner him in the dining hall tonight.

When Celaena didn’t object further, Ansel held up a bucket. “So this bucket is for your journey back from the oasis—you’ll need it. And this one”—she held up the other—“is just to make the trip hell.”

“Why?”

Ansel hooked the buckets into the yoke across her shoulders. “Because if you can run three miles across the dunes of the Red Desert, then three miles back, you can do almost anything.”

“Run?” Celaena’s throat dried up at the thought of it. All around them, assassins—mostly the children, plus a few others a bit older than her—began running for the dunes, their buckets clacking along.

“Don’t tell me the infamous Celaena Sardothien can’t run three miles!”

“If you’ve been here for so many years, doesn’t the three miles seem like nothing now?”

Ansel rolled her neck like a cat stretching out in the sun. “Of course it does. But the running keeps me in shape. You think I was just born with these legs?” Celaena ground her teeth as Ansel gave her a fiendish grin. She’d never met anyone who smiled and winked so much.

Ansel began jogging, leaving the shade of the date trees overhead, kicking up a wave of red sand behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. “If you walk, it’ll take all day! And then you’ll certainly never impress anyone!” Ansel pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth and took off at a gallop.